


After the Fall

by Reeseykins



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Melodramatic, One Shot, non-graphic mentions of sexual encounters, sap sap sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reeseykins/pseuds/Reeseykins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris goes searching for (Female Mage) Hawke after the end-game events of Dragon Age II separated them.  This is sort of a sappy/dramatic reflection on their relationship.  Mentions of F!Hawke/Anders.  King Alistair, Queen Cousland, and Zevran make cameo appearances.</p><p>I originally intended this to be the start of a long fic but, per usual, I couldn't find the time to run with it.  Luckily I think it is still sort of nice standing alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

It had been a year since she left Kirkwall. Rather, it had been a year since she’d _fled_ Kirkwall. At times like this—in the quiet of twilight, as the sun slowly crept below the horizon and all the nocturnal creatures of the forest began emerging from their daytime slumber—Hawke’s thoughts always turned to Kirkwall. The former Champion sat in the grass outside her small house, leaning against the solitary boulder that dominated the front exterior of the building, staring up into the slowly darkening sky.

Living alone had been trying for Hawke. She had unintentionally grown quieter, more contemplative. After years spent in the constant company of friends and family, living a solitary life was a truly foreign experience. She hadn’t been prepared for the emptiness and, indeed, growing up the way she did—with two ever-bickering siblings, not to mention her ebullient father and over-protective mother—was poor practice for life truly on her own. Days passed by in an endless stream, with only her memories to keep her company.

Twilight deepened to almost-night, and Hawke maintained her evening vigil.  Her thoughts turned invariably to her Mother who, out of everyone she had lost, she felt most responsible for.  Her father and her sister Bethany were casualties of war, a cause for grief, to be sure, but one that was easier to bear somehow because of the hugeness that was the Blight. Then she had lost her headstrong brother, Carver, when he had joined the Templar order, a loss she attributed as much to sibling rivalry as to ideology. But Mother’s death had come as a failure for Hawke, one that was not easily forgotten or forgiven.  After they had moved from her Uncle Gamlen’s Lowtown hovel into the old Amell estate in Hightown, Hawke had become increasingly frustrated with Leandra’s constant meddling in her love life. Hawke had always been her father’s daughter, and Hawke had chafed under that sort of maternal intrusion into her private affairs.  It had all erupted in a mother/daughter screaming fit, spurred by Isabela “accidentally” mentioning the night when Hawke had shared her bed with one of their male companions.  If Hawke had known that her Mother would be taken from her a mere day later, she wouldn’t have allowed her Mother’s prying to get under her skin.  Tears welled up in her eyes as she pictured her Mother’s eyes as the life winked out of them, extinguished by the machinations of a mad blood mage intent on reclaiming his lost love.

 _“You’ve always made me proud.”_  
  
Hawke shook her head, trying to clear it of the fog.  On the road out of Kirkwall, she had resolved to make a new start for herself.  She had returned to Fereldan, the only other place she could call home.  King Alistair welcomed her, albeit in secret, and his wife, the Hero of Fereldan and Commander of the Grey, had taken a shine to Hawke immediately. She spent the first two weeks enjoying their hospitality, and recovering from the shock of what she had just been through.  In the span of practically a day, the world she had so carefully crafted for herself in Kirkwall had fallen to pieces, blown apart when Anders unveiled his so-called justice for mages. The King and Queen provided her respite after that dark time.  
  
Inevitably, she determined to settle somewhere and live a peaceful life.  At least, that was what she told herself was the sane and practical thing to do in such a situation. She heard from the kitchen staff at the palace that people were rebuilding right outside of Lothering, a settlement the people unoriginally nicknamed Newtown.  The location was somewhat remote and was situated east of Lothering, nestled amidst a narrow valley in the mountains.  It sounded quite perfect to Hawke, and with the money she managed to carry out of Kirkwall, and the help of the Queen, hired builders in Denerim to travel ahead and build her a small house on a plot of land granted her by the Crown. A month later saw her departure from Denerim and arrival at her fresh start.  
  
The people of Newtown gave Hawke a wide-berth. She had tried to ingratiate herself to a certain extent at first, mostly by helping to keep the peace as new settlers moved in and claimed bits of land, but the task reminded her too much of her days as Champion.  She had tried simply socializing, but her own anxieties plagued her as she stumbled through every interaction.  She developed somewhat of a reputation for eccentricities, which made her withdraw further.  After only a few months of trying, in her heart she had given up fitting in and gone on living life like a hermit.  It was then that the memories began to flood bac  
She had been thinking reflectively of the past year when she was startled from her reverie by her mabari hound who came trotting out from behind the house with a contented look on his face.  He smelled of raw meat and dirt, but Hawke didn’t object when he flopped down—with an audible huff—practically on her lap.  He was her most loyal companion, of course, and she would never deny him his evening head-scratch.  
  
It was dark at last and cool, the humidity of the summer’s day passing as a light breeze blew in from the South.  She patted the top of the mabari’s head absently as her thoughts turned to her old friends.  Her mind drifted to happier times, a trick she had developed which helped keep the loneliness at bay, and she chuckled quietly to herself. She thought of the time she had caught Sandal swinging from the chandelier in her mansion, oblivious to the danger he was putting himself in.  Isabela’s corny (and dirty) jokes, told in a conspiratorial whisper as they shared mugs of ale in the Hanged Man.  That time she had arrived late one Wednesday night for Wicked Grace, only to find her friends in varying states of undress, having decided to change up the rules by requiring that the loser of each hand remove an article of clothing.  Isabela was fully dressed and angry for it, Varric was bare-chested, Anders down to his small-clothes, shivering not with cold but embarrassment under Hawke’s gaze, and Fenris, cross-legged and wearing only the leggings of his hide armour.  
  
 _Fenris._  
  
She never liked to dwell on him, on what could have, should have, might have been.  They had been together for one night, and one night only, of the many long years Hawke lived in Kirkwall and, unabashedly, pined for him.  Their love-making had been exquisite.  Despite being stripped of his memories, Fenris was a proficient lover. It was clear from his ministrations that his feelings for Hawke were more than mere physical attraction, and Hawke returned them in kind once…twice…thrice over. When they finally collapsed together under her covers, he had rubbed her cheek gently and kissed her, murmuring her name over and over again until she drifted off into a contented sleep. Her last thoughts were of his incredible eyes, huge and liquid green, so beautiful… That was why she had been so surprised when she had awoken and found him staring in agitation into her fireplace, explaining that he couldn’t be for her what he wanted to be.  For the first time in her life, Hawke’s steely heart had broken.  
  
It had taken her longer than she expected to get over losing him in that way, but after a while she had resorted to her usual methods and had put it to the back of her mind.  She and Fenris never spoke of it, and they managed to enjoy a companionable relationship in spite of the awkwardness.  He accompanied her many times when she traveled outside the city in the days and weeks before her duel with the Arishok. He had even taken to wearing a small replica of her crest at his hip—he said to signify to anyone that messing with Hawke meant messing with him as well—and a strip of red fabric he had acquired in her mansion that night. Hawke didn’t press him about it.  She knew, in his own strange way, he was just trying to sort out his own problems.  
  
At the same time, however, she found that she couldn’t keep herself from getting involved with someone else.  It was natural that her and Anders came together, after all. Not only did Hawke share his sympathy for the plight of the Circle Mages, being a life-long  apostate herself, but really they shared a common sense of humor.  They threw sarcastic barbs at each other whenever they were together, bantering about topics both inane and profane, often to the delight of Varric and Isabela (but never to Aveline).  About one year after her one-night-of-passion with Fenris, she fell (almost literally) into bed at the Hanged Man with Anders. They were both drunk and it was late when they finally bounded up the stairs in the back towards the rooms, giggling as they dared each other to finally grow a pair and have this sexual tension out.  But it was, in fact, Varric’s unfortunate bed that they had tumbled into, and they were promptly kicked out as soon as they had groped their way to a climax.  
  
She had known a good deal of happiness with the man.  But then, that was the catch, wasn’t it? He wasn’t _just_ a man. At first Hawke tried to deny the existence of Justice within Anders, but as Meredith tightened her grip on Kirkwall she watched the Fade Spirit slowly consume what had, at one time, been a light-hearted young man.  Hawke knew what it was to touch the Fade, to feel the magic coursing through her veins. Her father had taught her, each time you cast a spell—no matter how big or how small—you walk the line between keeping your cool and losing it completely.  Watch for that balance, he’d said, and don’t push too far beyond, because that is where the demons go for their hunt. Anders lost that battle when he took Justice within him, and Hawke knew it was just a matter of time before he stopped resisting losing himself completely.  When it did finally snap, Hawke’s heart broke a second time.  
  
She ordered him away. Sebastian had righteously proclaimed that Hawke should execute him on the spot, but Hawke could not bear the thought of executing even the small shred of what was once Anders left within him. The Prince of Starkhaven had declared his dissent, and promptly quit Kirkwall proper.  Anders had left at Hawke’s direction and at least had the sense to stay out of the battle that ultimately ensued. Orsino’s downfall was a horrifying blur of blood magic, and the last standoff with Meredith left her numb. The remaining Templars, her brother among them, had allowed her to pass from the Gallows and out of Kirkwall.  At the end of it all, she was their Champion as well.  That night, as they made camp at the base of Sundermount and came down from the high of battle and running for their lives, Fenris had come to her.  
  
“I need you to know, if I could go back to that night, I would stay. I should have told you this earlier, but I couldn’t bear hurting you again if you didn’t feel the same.” At that she had shaken her head, eyes wide with shock at hearing him speak so plainly.  He leaned in to her and gently kissed her lips, affection and compassion evident as a tear streaked from his eye. Hawke had fallen forward into his embrace and sobbed silently into his shoulder, grateful for the comfort, relieved that there was still someone who cared about her. After a few minutes, she had sat back and smiled weakly at him, and he had held both her hands in his and kissed them.  
  
“I know this may be difficult, but I cannot stay here now. I have some…loose ends I must tie up. But after I am done, I will come for you. I shall find you and I shall make amends, if you would let me.”  
  
Hawke exhaled, back in the present.  Who was she kidding, she thought to herself as she stood up and brushed the grass from her robes.  Fenris was on her mind every day, almost every minute.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to banish him from her mind, but all she could see swimming in her vision were his eyes—big and round and liquid, the deepest shade of forest green she’d ever seen, staring back at her.  Maker be damned his promises.

* * *

Fenris was starting to suspect that he’d missed the turn-off.  He stopped, took a long gulp from the waterskin he carried around his shoulder, and looked up at the sun.  It was almost noon; if he had to backtrack, he wouldn’t be making his destination before nightfall.  He swore to himself under his breath (in Tevinter, of course).  Sure, he’d spent years outrunning and outsmarting Danarius, but back then he forged his own path; this time he had to actually _find_ something, and tracking was not his forte.  Aggravated, he turned back north and started searching for the path that would take him east, this time at a heightened pace.  
  
The directions he’d gotten in Denerim were from a reliable source, although they were imprecise.  When he’d first arrived in the Fereldan capital, he’d gone straight to request an audience with the King.  Luckily, Fenris had arrived on a day when court was in session, and he was put on the waiting list.  It was awkward for him, as he realized he’d have to make his request in front of all the other people that had gathered there.  But King Alistair was the people’s King, they said, and this was how he generally conducted his business.  
  
“Your Majesty,” Fenris said, stepping up to the podium in front of the thrones.  “I am Fenris, recently out of the Free Marches.  I have come to your Kingdom in search of my lady, Marion Hawke, formerly of Kirkwall. I was hoping you would assist me in …”  
     
Alistair held up a hand, interrupting him.  “I have not seen or heard from the Champion of Kirkwall since my meeting with her in that City, before its Fall.”  He spared a sideways glance to the woman seated beside him, presumably his Queen, who Fenris suddenly realized was examining him with a thoughtful look. Suddenly, she winked at him.  
  
Before he knew it, he was being ushered from the small dais and out of the audience hall.  Discouraged, he left the Palace and sought out the nearest tavern, hoping to, at least, sleep in a bed that night.   
  
As he sat at the bar several hours later, contemplating the bottom of his mug of ale, a low voice with an Antivan accent called out to him.  “Word says you were asking after the illustrious Champion of Kirkwall today at the Palace.”  
  
“Word gets around fast,” he replied.  
  
The source of the voice leaned forward out of the shadows.  Fenris realized, as he saw the long blonde hair and numerous daggers sticking out from his belt, who it was he was being addressed by.  “Well, perhaps you shouldn’t ask questions so loudly when certain people do not want to be found…Fenris? Have I got that right?”  
  
“Yes.” He nodded. “Zevran.”  
  
As it turned out, the King and Queen had asked Zevran to find Fenris and provide him with instructions on how to find Hawke.  Zevran explained that the they had all been denying ever seeing Hawke in order to keep her location as secret as possible.  Zevran had accompanied Hawke on her way south, however, and happily shared his memories of the place with Fenris.  
  
“Hawke is a lovely woman,” Zevran had said when they finally parted ways.  “I tried to win her for my self, but alas, that minx would not have me.  I can’t imagine why…”  Fenris bristled at the memory of that and other lewd comments the elf had made about Hawke throughout the evening.  If it had been anyone else he probably would have punched him in the face with his gauntleted fist.  
  
Fenris banished his thoughts, still searching for the turnoff Zevran had told him about.  After another hour of walking, he caught up to a merchant bound north whom he hadn’t passed on the way south.  Presuming he may have just departed from his elusive destination, he stopped and asked him for assistance.  
  
“You’re looking for Newtown? What business you got there?” the man asked, peering down at Fenris from his wagon as he spoke.  It was a rare occasion to see an elf such as him—although he was dressed simply, in a loose cream colored tunic and brown leggings, his sword was clearly showing above his pack, and his lyrium tattoos peeked out from underneath his clothes.  
  
He had nothing to hide, once he thought it over, and so responded, “I am searching for the woman I love, and I believe she lives there.” After he’d said it out loud, he’d gulped.  The merchant examined his response.  Luckily, he must have believed in his sincerity, because he gave him specific instructions to the road he sought.  
  
Fenris pictured her face again as he reached the edge of the valley.  The last time he’d seen her had been a year ago, three days after the madness in Kirkwall had erupted.  He’d almost faltered at the last minute and boarded Isabela’s ship to Fereldan with her.  Hawke had only cried for those few moments at their Sundermount camp, right after they’d left the Gallows for the last time, and Fenris was worried she was spiraling into something from which she wouldn’t recover.  Hawke was never loose with her emotions, but this was different—she had retreated inside an impenetrable wall of ice. At the last moment, right as he had decided that perhaps he should go with her, for her own safety, she turned her eyes to his and said: “Do what needs to be done. And I will look for you.”   
  
All he could do was nod his assent.  He’d wondered if she’d known what he was about, staying behind like that.  Was she giving him her blessing to hunt that abomination?  He’d mulled it over for a year as he tracked Anders down, but still hadn’t decided whether or not she’d really known what he was trying to do.  
  
The sun was setting as he entered the valley.  He could tell he was in the right place at last by the smoke rising into the air from campfires and chimneys. He took the main path through what he presumed was the center of town, past several well-maintained (but small) houses and a number of small shops, and continued on deeper into the valley.  Zevran had said that Hawke built her house on the farthest edge of the valley, up a steep incline and right next to the cliff-face. Looking up, he saw a lone trail of smoke ascending into the air some ways up the path.   
  
He began his ascent up the hill that would lead him to her.  
  
* * *

Hawke was busying herself inside her home with fixing dinner.  Most nights she ate simply, some bread, some cheese, some preserved meats, and this night was no different.  Her dog whuffled to himself as he slept in front of her fireplace; chasing imaginary foes, she had no doubt.  It brought a smile to her face as she began to eat.  
  
With a start, the hound was suddenly on his feet, his eyes alert and fixated on her front door. Hawke nearly knocked her plate off the table, his quick movement had given her such a fright.  “What is it, boy?” she whispered, knowing him well enough to already know the answer: someone was approaching.  
  
She swallowed past the rising knot in her throat and reached for her staff which was leaning against the wall.  Since she had left Kirkwall, she hadn’t performed any magic.  Although she could have used it at times, something about it felt wrong to her, and plus she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She readied herself for the possibility that she might finally have to break her self-imposed abstinence.  
  
She noticed, then, that her mabari had quieted and had cocked his head to the side.  He looked as if he was considering something (he probably was, being such an intelligent breed) and it confused Hawke.  Perhaps her visitor was not, as she initially believed, here to cause her harm. She let out a breath she hadn’t quite realized she was holding and moved quietly and slowly towards the front of her house, closing the distance between her dining table and the wooden door.  
  
Hawke closed her eyes and sensed more than heard her visitor step up to the door.  She pressed herself to the wood, listening in silence. The cracks in the door were just wide enough for her to catch a glimpse of the person standing outside, but due to the darkness and the person’s proximity to the door, all she could really see was plain colored clothing that fluttered slightly in the nighttime breezes.  
  
A knock, hesitant at first, but by the third rap, stronger and more audible.  She gulped and, stepping back from the door and clutching her quarterstaff in a grip made too tight by nerves, responded, “Who’s there?”  
  
“Hawke?” The voice called her name from beyond the door, and even subdued as it was, she thought she recognized the distinctive sound of her name being spoken.  Caution abandoned, she flung open the door, and took in the sight before her. There on her doorstep, those liquid green eyes, and that damnable elf.  
  
“Fenris?” she asked, afraid to break the spell and see what was surely a figment of her imagination dissipate into the night in front of her eyes.  
  
“Yes,” he stated simply, eyes speaking volumes. “I have come.”


End file.
